Touch of the Fallen One
by Mireille DeMaupassant
Summary: The Golden Trio's quest to find the horcruxes has begun, but things take a turn for the worst when the Golden Boy Himself starts to lose his luster. Note: first nononeshot since Falling!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

It was a hot night, the hottest and stickiest in August so far. It was the kind of night that made a man feel like the world around him was melting. The kind of night that brought about a heavy silence over the outside world. No animal dared to step foot or paw outside of its dwelling, for they all possessed the knowledge of the consequence of such a foolish act. All families in the area remained inert inside their homes, for fear of further overheating themselves. Any passersby would have thought them to be stupefied. Plants that once stood bright and erect on windowsills and tables now hung flaccid and limp, rendered weak from the once benevolent sun's gradual sucking out of their life forces.

The sweltering heat pressed heavily upon Harry Potter's chest as he lay sprawled out across the mold scented mattress of his bed at Grimmauld Place, producing beads of sweat on his skin that saturated nearly every inch of his cotton pajamas and the sheets now hanging haphazardly about him. His breaths were slow, and his eyes were shut tight as he drifted back and forth between the realm of dreams and the land of the waking. This cerebral unrest gave the world around him a delirium like haziness. Though he saw nothing, he heard and felt everything around him. In the dark void of his half sleeping mind, he heard his breaths echoing in the distance; he felt the August heat threatening to choke him.

He wanted an escape, a release, anything to get him out of this crushing heat. His body craved it, needed it. Sleeping or not, he wasn't sure if he would be able to last much longer in this torrid weather. Every part of him stuck to something else, moist with his body's strong but failed attempt to cool itself. The air he inhaled, so slowly and deeply, was so thick it felt more like mud than air. It was more than he or anybody else in London could take. Then, like an answer to his call, his wish, his prayer, he felt it—cool and refreshing against his fiery cheek, the brief touch of ice cold…fingernails?

Eyes closed, he frowned. Was someone here? Was someone with him, in his room? He waited for a moment. When he felt nothing, he relaxed. Then he felt it again, just as cool and just as brief, on his other cheek. His face twitched and he made a little noise. He was awake now, listening, waiting.

From somewhere above him, he heard a long breath being let out. He was about to open his eyes but he soon felt something else, a tugging at his pyjama top. It wasn't until the tented fabric fell onto his chest and the tugging moved lower that he realized the buttons were being undone. He wanted to open his eyes, now, to see who or what it was that was apparently undressing him, but he found himself held back. When the fabric fell for the last time, the two flaps were pushed to either side of his chest and abdomen, leaving them completely exposed.

A palm was placed upon his chest, at the point where his sternum and clavicle met. The touch sent a chill throughout his entire upper body, raising the thin hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck. It didn't linger, though, the hand. Before he could exhale the deep breath he'd sucked in as a result of the unexpected contact, the hand was on the move, trailing down the center of his body. His back arched into it, welcoming the cool sensation, begging for it to continue. It followed the medial line down to the path of thin black hairs just below his navel.

He let out a small, breathy, whimper.

On either side of him, the mattress sagged with the weight of another body, lowering itself onto the bed. Thin lips pressed against the left side of his collar bone. His own dry lips parted slightly and he let out a barely audible, "Ah." The others lifted and he felt them again inches below, on his left pectoral. A tongue slithered out from between them and began to snake down his flesh, leaving a frigid path in its wake. There was something different about this tongue, Harry noticed, as it danced over and around his already hardened nipple, something strange. He couldn't put his finger on it, and the fact that it was already moving to the other side, most likely to perform the same actions, did not help to clear his mind.

Before long, the lips returned, kissing down the same path that the hand had first made. They went farther, though, surpassing his navel and following his treasure trail to the waistband of his pajama bottoms. The hand, joined by its pair, didn't hesitate to seize the elastic band and ease it down. Without pausing to think, Harry lifted his hips, allowing the garment to be pulled down his thighs, past his knees, around his ankles, and over his feet. Then, they were gone, and Harry felt nothing but the night air on his bare flesh, his aching arousal.

The knees on either side of him repositioned themselves, moving to the area of mattress between his legs. Harry spread his legs willingly, eagerly, making his want—his need—known. Fingertips brushed lightly over his feet…his ankles…his calves...retracing the path made by the pajama bottoms. Hands grasped his knees, slid down his thighs with unnerving torpidity, sending more chills through him with their icy touch. Each hand's grip tightened around his thigh as the body between his legs lowered itself. Harry felt a tingle run through his lower region when the motion stopped; the face was close, he knew it was. Finally, he felt the cool kiss of his mystery lover's exhaled breath wash over his hardened member. A hand left his thigh and wrapped around it, guiding it into an oral cavity. He sucked in a deep breath as thin lips closed around the tight flesh. Then he felt that tongue, that—wicked tongue…

His fingers tightened around the sheets covering his mattress as the tongue that he still hadn't quite figured out coursed up the underside of his cock, slicking it up from base to tip. It slithered over the head, lapping up the sticky precum that had already accumulated.

Harry let out his breath in a long ragged sighing moan. There was a name on his lips, the name of the one he'd yearned to have this sort of encounter with. But that would have been impossible, wouldn't it?

"S…" he hissed.

A thumb and an index finger wrapped around the base of his cock and began to slide slowly up and down the length, stroking him in time with the gentle suction that the mouth around the head provided. He rolled his hips, pushing himself deeper into the chasm of carnal pleasure. The mouth made no protestation so he continued, propelling himself further forward with each gentle thrust, deep enough, at times, that he connected with the back of his mystery lover's throat.

He moaned again. "Siri…" he whispered desperately, feeling the tension building within him begin to beg for release. "Sirius…"

A low moan erupted from deep within the stranger's throat, sending sweet vibrations up Harry's prick. Harry's thrusts began to hasten as his need increased; the mouth sucked harder and faster, sensing his urgency; and with a couple more strokes he was lost in orgasmic ecstasy as his body suddenly stilled and he spilled into the depths of his mystery lover's mouth. Then, his muscles relaxed and he fell back into a post-climactic stupor. His eyes finally opened of their own accord and for a long time, he stared into the cracked ceiling above him. Just as before, he could hear himself breathing; he could feel his heartbeat, now slowing down as fatigue began to take him over. He quickly realized that he still felt the presence of another. Very sluggishly, he brought himself up onto his elbows. His gaze began to lower from the ceiling.

Who was it that had been pleasuring him in such ways? Could it be the one his heart really wanted it to be, the one he had lost seemingly so long ago? He would soon find out.

His eyes traveled down the decaying wallpaper of the wall opposite him until they finally fell upon the figure in the mattress. His heart stopped. Looming just above his nakedness was a long, ghostly white face. A forked pink tongue flicked out over thin lips, pulled into a twisted smile. Deep scarlet eyes pierced into his own emerald orbs and, all at once, the scar on his forehead burned white-hot.

Harry's eyes jerked open as he threw his torso forward with a grunt of shock. He looked frantically about himself. He was…alone. It was…a dream? He looked down at his body. His pajamas were still on, just the way they had been when he put them on the night before. He let out a sigh of relief. Yes, it was all a dream. He placed a hand on his chest in attempt to steady his racing heart. The sun was coming up, he noticed, taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

Suddenly, the door of his bedroom burst open. He jumped, nearly falling out of his bed. His head jerked to the door, where he found the blurred figure of Hermione standing in the doorway, fully dressed with her bushy hair pulled back into a fuzzy ponytail.

"Rise and shine, sleepy head! It's nearly—" She stopped herself, seeing the look on his face. "Is something wrong, Harry?" she asked him.

He took a moment to calm himself further before answering. "No, Hermione," he said, between breaths, "I'm fine. You just…startled me is all."

"Oh." He saw her cheeks suddenlyflush with embarassment. "I'm sorry, Harry. Um, Mrs. Weasley told me to come up and get you. She says breakfast is ready."

Harry nodded. "Tell her I'll be down in a few minutes."

"Alright," Hermione answered. "See you in a bit, then."

And she left, pulling the door shut behind her. Harry waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps going down the hall. Then he dropped his head into his hands. "Sweet mother of Merlin," he muttered to himself. What an incredible way to start a journey.

o-o-o-o-o

**Feech's Note:** Well? What'd you think? Do you want to know what happens next? Was it a waste of your time? Let me know! Leave a review! Ooh, and look!> No outside influences! If you recognize anything in this story as being from something that might have influenced me, be sure to keep that to yourself. I pride myself on my originality, even if it's completely nonexistent. And also, I don't believe in proofreading, as I'm sure I've already stated elsewhere, so if you find any errors in spelling, grammar, consistency, let me know. The prize for consistency errors is the same as in "Falling" though I'm not sure if there's room for new characters in this story yet. I'll figure something out. Review me! Peaches!


	2. chapter two

**Disclaimer:** Same deal as always. I want to own'em but I don't. That's probably for the best.

**Pre-Note:** Please be sure to read the note at the end of the chapter. It makes an attempt to explain some things that I think are important. Read on!

**Chapter Two**

The next few moments of the morning Harry spent in self-derision. _Sirius_, he chuckled to himself bitterly as he changed into his clothes for that morning, clothes that he had to steal from his travel bag because he had forgotten to leave them out the night before. (Mrs. Weasley would have something to say about the wrinkled state of his jeans and tee shirt.)

_Sirius…_ as he pulled the door of his bedroom shut behind him upon leaving, travel bag in hand.

_Sirius…_ as he rounded the corner of the long hallway and headed down the front staircase, trying desperately to leave the feeling of a thousand white hot needles piercing his heart behind. But, of course, he found no relief. Finally, he stopped in the middle of his descent, turned and threw his fist against the molding wallpaper covering the wooden panels of the wall. He was a fool, he silently admitted to himself, pressing his forehead to it, allowing the stinging moisture he'd been trying to keep at bay for so long finally have its way. He was a great fool for even thinking Sirius could be back. Sirius was dead. And Dumbledore said it himself: no spell can wake the dead. Besides, even if Sirius had been alive, there was no way he would ever…he still wouldn't want to—

He'd given in too much, he realized as a sob began to form at the back of his throat. He tried to hold it back, to reinforce the emotional wall he had built for himself before it could break, but it was no use. Despite his efforts, it burst forth, ripping through him with the strength of a tidal wave, tearing down his wall brick by brick with every passing second. The one cleared the way for many more, accompanied by tears. He began to feel weak at the knees. Suddenly all he wanted was to throw himself onto the floor and cry, cry it all out, cry like he had never been able to because he was too busy being the Savior of the World.

No, no, no, he told himself, I can't break down like this. Not here, not now. 

He began taking slow deep breaths, grasping at a little bit of his sanity with each one. His fingers clawed at the age-softened wall, as if for some kind of physical support until his throat began to clear, his eyes began to dry, and the heaviness in his chest began to dispel. Before long, his body returned once more, to stability.

He brought his hand from the wall to his face, to wipe away all traces of his little emotional breakdown. He had dwelt too long on the goings on of the past, when they weren't even the most important part of that ludicrous dream.

_Maybe not so ludicrous,_ whispered a voice at the back of his head.

As much as he would have liked to ignore it, he knew it was right. He'd dreamt about the Dark Lord, and worse yet was that the dream had been incredibly sexual. He was quite certain that people generally didn't have sexual dreams about the Dark Lord without there being some kind of meaning behind it. Actually, he was even more certain that people generally didn't have sex dreams about the Dark Lord at all, but that was beside the point.

Before he could ponder on it further, however, he heard his name being called from the kitchen. He immediately left his spot on the second landing and raced down the remaining steps. When he reached the entry of the basement kitchen, he was greeted by the tops of two brown heads (one bushy and one streaked generously with gray), the top of a dark blue head, and the top and back of two very bright read heads. Ron and Hermione sat at one end of the long table, huddled over a large map, pointing at various places while speaking in raised whispers; Remus and Tonks were in more or less the same state, only they were looking at and discussing a very official looking piece of parchment; and Mrs. Weasley stood with her back to them all at the stove, the sounds and smoke of sizzling sausage rising about her slightly messy hair.

As soon as he stepped foot in the kitchen, all heads perked up and a scattered chorus of "good mornings" came from the mouths of their owners. Harry returned the greeting with a sweeping nod in the general direction of them all.

"Where've you been, Harry? I've been calling you all morning," Mrs. Weasley said without turning around. Her tone was laced with an iciness that took him by surprise.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley," he said tentatively, pulling out a chair. "I got a bit of a late start this morning."

Mrs. Weasley made a grunting noise that was entirely unbefitting of her usual warm disposition. "Well, don't let it become a habit," she said, her voice unchanging. "You can't afford to have late starts on this mission of yours."

Before the seat of his pants could touch the wood of his chair, Mrs. Weasley turned around and magicked plates in front of each of their places. Then, she levitated six sausages onto each plate. Something was off. Harry tried to catch her eye, but she would let him. She wasn't looking at him—no, she was outright avoiding his gaze, and she was speaking to him as if he was a total stranger. This was not the Molly Weasley he had some to know and love.

"Mrs. Weasley," he said, "is something the matter?"

She, on her way back to the stove, stopped mid step and turned around. Finally her eyes met his—her honeyed browns bore into his sharp greens—and he saw it. She must have realized that he caught what she had been trying to hide because as soon as the thought clicked in his mind, she burst into tears. All conversation ceased. Harry leapt from his seat to Mrs. Weasley side and quickly put an arm around her, just as she began to slump toward the stone floor. "Oh, Harry," she sobbed, "I'm so sorry. I—tried—to—but—I—I—"

"Mrs. Weasley," he grunted, for she had turned and thrown the bulk of her weight onto him in throwing her head onto his shoulder, "what's the matter. What's wrong?" He twisted his head as far back as his compromised neck would allow and sent a plea for assistance in the form of a jerk in Hermione and Ron's general direction. The both of them quickly ran to his aid, grabbing Mrs. Weasley by a shoulder each and mostly dragging her to a seat at the table, where she continued to sob.

"Harry, I'm sorry," she wailed.

"What for, Mrs. Weasley?" Harry asked, massaging his happily liberated shoulder. "You haven't done anything."

"I tried so hard to be strong," she went on, "I told myself I would be. But I can't do it. I just ca—a—n't. You're like a son to me. More than that. I can't just let you go off like this. I'd never be able to live with myself if something were to happen to you."

"But Mrs. Weasley," Harry started, "if I don't go the entire Wizarding World will—"

"Oh Wizarding World be damned, Harry. You are my _child_. I don't care what happens to the bloody Wizarding World! I just want you safe."

She buried her face into her apron and continued to sob loudly. Harry stood in complete silence. He had heard declarations of her maternal affection for him before but never to this extent. Here sat a woman who had given him a mother after his own had been taken away for so long, crying for him only as a mother would, and he was about to leave her, break her…betray her. His heart gave a violent twinge as guilt began to set in.

_But you have to,_ said that voice at the back of his head. _You know you do. You can't help it._

It was right. There was no denying it. If he didn't go through with his mission, there probably wouldn't even be a Mrs. Weasley for him to come home to.

_But that still doesn't make me feel any better about leaving._

"Mrs. Weasley," he began. "I…I'm sorry. I don't want to—but you know—and I can't--"

Whatever message his brain was trying to convey, his mouth clearly didn't understand. He let out a frustrated groan and turned away, pressing his palms against the cool wooden counter. He heard Hermione's voice behind him.

"You knew it would happen, Mrs. Weasley," she said soothingly, "you knew this day would come. You know who he is, and what he has to do."

"Yes, yes," Mrs. Weasley replied, more calmly. "I know. You're right. I'm making such a great fool of myself." Harry heard the sound of chair legs scraping against the stone floor. It wasn't long before he felt a presence behind him…a hand on his shoulder.

"Harry, I'm sorry," she said softly. He turned around. She looked at him with those warm brown eyes, glassy with tears held back, and he felt something within him melt. "I didn't mean to get so emotional, I just."

"It's alright, Mrs. Weasley," he said softly. He paused for a moment. "I don't _want_ to leave. I just have to, for the sake of—"

"I know, dear. I know." She pulled him into a long soft hug.

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley," he muttered, burying his face into her bosom, just as he had done after the terrible ordeal at the Triwizard's Tournament in his fourth year.

Harry noticed, as he sat at the table, chewing on an exceptional piece of bacon, that there was one missing from their party. His mind had just begun to run through the list of the tenants of Grimmauld Place when the missing party herself strolled into the room.

"Hello, all," Ginny Weasley said brightly as she walked to the table and took a seat next to her older brother. "Started breakfast without me, I see."

"It's your own fault," responded Mrs. Weasley, who was now seated at the head of the table, where Remus and Tonks were once huddled. "You should have come down earlier."

Harry's heart sank with dread as memories of the night before flooded into his brain. He had been so wrapped up in the dream that he had completely forgotten. It had been a birthday celebration and a sending off party combined into one, and though only a select few could attend, all were merry. All except Harry, that is.

That night, before the party had even begun, he had been on his way to talk to Remus about the plans for the next day, when he heard voices through the door of a room he had walked by.

"Hermione," tearfully moaned the first. He had immediately recognized it as Ginny's. "I don't know what I'm going to do. Not being able to be with him is tearing me apart!"

"I know, I know," said Hermione, ever the consoler. "But you remember what he said. You and I both know how much he you mean to him and he just doesn't want you to get hurt."

Ginny had sniffled, dejectedly. "I know," she said. The moroseness of her voice cut through him like a hot steel blade. "I just…t hurts so much. I want to be with him so badly. I want to tell him how I feel about him but it's not possible and it probably won't be, because he's…he's…"

The rest of the words dissolved into sobs. "There, there," cooed Hermione, "It's only until after we get back. And when that happens, you and he can be together all you like."

"But what if he doesn't…come back? What if…"

"Don't say that. You'll only worry yourself more. Harry is coming back, Ginny. We're all coming back." There was a pause in the conversation in which Hermione sighed. "Look," she said, so softly that Harry could barely hear her, "Harry definitely wouldn't want me telling you to do this but I wouldn't be a good friend if I didn't. Go talk to him."

"What?" Ginny

"You need to speak with him. Tonight at the party, try to get him alone and tell him how you feel."

"But he said—"

"I know what he said, but I'm telling you that doesn't matter. I know he wants to talk to you, to tell you how he feels about you. I can see it in his eyes. At least once every day this summer, I've always seen him with this look in his eyes. He always looks so far away, like he's remembering…longing. I just know he's thinking about you, Ginny. He has to be."

Something that felt suspiciously like anger had begun to boil inside of him then and even began to boil in him now as he glanced across the table at Hermione. She had done it again. Interfered with things she had no business in. Harry hadn't stuck around to hear Ginny's response. In less than a moment, he was headed down the hallway, as far from that room as possible.

"Thank you, Hermione," he had muttered angrily under his breath as his strides had taken him to the room he would be sleeping in. "Thank you _so much_." When he had gotten into the room, he had slammed the door shut and pressed his back against it, as if to block any intruders from entering. Then he had closed his eyes.

_It's not as if sheacted without reason…_

Since when had he developed such a persistently contrary alternate personality, he wondered to himself as he reflected on the events of the previous evening. But even back then, he knew the voice had been right. Hermione hadn't been acting without reason. He _had,_ on several occasions, found himself staring off into the beyond…remembering…longing…but Ginny Weasley had nothing to do with it. Lord, even when he was dead the man was still giving him—

"Are you alright, Harry?" asked Tonks, bringing him out of his memories, "You've kept your fork suspended halfway to your mouth for two minutes now."

"Oh, I…er," Damn, he needed to think of something, but, ironically enough, the moment of his realization of this fact was quickly followed by the emptying of his brain. Fortunately, he was saved from having to answer.

"Well, if he's not eating," Ginny said, "I'd like to speak with him. In private. If that's alright with you, Harry."

Perhaps it was not so fortuitous after all.

He looked up from his plate. Her brown eyes, identical to her mother's, were fixed upon his, just has her mother's had been earlier. He knew what she wanted to talk about and what was worse was that _she knew_ he knew. There was no getting out of it.

"Um, sure, Ginny," he said slowly, finalizing his obvious defeat.

He put his fork down and the pair of them left the kitchen, Harry trailing slightly behind Ginny as she led him to one of the smaller studies upstairs. She allowed him to enter first, shutting the door behind her as she followed. He heart started to bang against his ribcage as soon as he hear it click shut, sealing his fate.

She approached him, smiling nervously, he noted. "So, um," she said, wringing her hands together, "You're leaving today."

He put his hands in his pockets, as if he was responding to her hands. "Yeah," he said quietly, "Today I leave to…attempt to save the world as we know it."

She chuckled nervously. "Wow," she replied. "It sounds so…ominous, when you say it like that. You must be…nervous."

"Yeah," he repeated, "I am, but there's not much I can do about that, is there."

"No, I guess there isn't."

They fell into silence. A pregnant silence. An awkward silence. A condemning silence. He watched Ginny take a deep breath. This was it.

"Look, Harry," she said, looking him right in the eye. "I'm not going to beat around the bush. Last night, were you…avoiding me?"

_Yes._

"Avoiding you? What gave you that idea?" he asked, finding reason, this time, to ignore the voice in his head.

"Well, it's just… I was looking for you, last night, and everywhere I went, you seemed to have just left."

_That's because I was trying to get away from you._

"Oh." he paused. "Well, you know how it is at your mum's parties. There's always someone trying to talk to me and pulling me this way and that. You must have just had…really bad luck last night."

He tried to chuckle, as if to toss the entire ordeal off as a joke. Ginny paused for a moment, probably to think, and then, to his enormous relief, joined in his laughter.

"You're probably right," she said, with a smile. "I was probably just overreacting."

"Yeah, overreacting," he repeated. God, what was he, a parrot?

Ginny cleared her throat. "Anyway," she started, "there was a reason for why I was looking for you last night." Another pause. "And…I'd like to…share it…with you."

_Oh gods,_ he thought. _Oh, gods. This is it…_

"Oh?" he replied, quite stupidly.

She took another step towards him, magnifying the feeling of claustrophobia coursing through him. "Harry," she said softly, "I know I'm not supposed to be saying this but if I don't get it out soon, I think I'll explode." His jaw fell open, as if he was about to say something, but no sound came out. Ginny pressed on. "I now we're supposed to be…just friends…but…but…I…love you." Her shoulders dropped and her body relaxed, like she had just let out a small sigh of relief. "I love you, Harry," she said again. "I always have and I always will. Please tell me you feel the same way."

_Damn,_ he thought, _damn._ But then, _no. No. I'm not going to give in to this. I'm going to use this as an opportunity._

His mouth fell open again as Ginny stared at him hopefully, expectantly.

_I'm sorry, Ginny, but I don't feel the same way. _

_I'm sorry, Ginny, but I just don't think you're right for me._

_I'm sorry, Ginny, but my heart lies elsewhere._

_I'm sorry, Ginny—_

"I love you, too."

It took her a moment to process what he had just said, but in the next second her lips were upon his; her arms were around his neck. "I knew it," she whispered, burying her face into his shoulder, "I knew you would feel the same way. I knew it."

"Hmm," he responded feebly, completely shocked at what had come out of his mouth.

"I'm going to miss you so much when you're gone. Promise you'll write to me?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"As often as you can?"

"As often as I can."

"Oh, Harry, you're the best." She kissed his lips again.

_You're a coward,_ he told himself, _a great bloody coward._

—————

Feech's Note: You're probably reading this thinking to yourself "This is what took her over an eternity to write? This?" Well, the only thing I can give as a means of explanation is that my life got busy and I experienced my worst case of writer's block yet for this particular story. To be quite honest, I rather like the ideas in this chapter. The writing, not so much. The even worse news, though. is that I'm going to have to put it away for a while because I kind of forgot to map out some of the more important parts of the plot. To compensate, I've got a couple more little buns in the oven. Previews? "The Slytherin Mudblood" and "The Story." Okay so the second title doesn't sound to exciting but the story itself will make up for it. Don't ask me for dates. Just know that I'm on Summer Holiday now—MUSICAL INTERLUDE: _We're all goin' on a summer holiday. No more workin' for a week or two…_— (Les Lapins Mauvais, that was for you! I heart you, Cliff Richard(s?)! Whoo!) so writing should be much easier. It would be even more easier (I realize that is grammatically incorrect but I'm going to leave it there just to piss off all you English buffs!) if my laptop were to become suddenly un-broken. But we can't have everything, can we? That's right. Toodles sweethearts! 'blows big movie star kiss' Peaches!


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